


Tangible

by Kate Andrews (k8andrewz)



Category: Second Sight (TV)
Genre: Blind Character, Blindness, Detectives, Disability, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k8andrewz/pseuds/Kate%20Andrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He discovers Boyd's voice is not always smooth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangible

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Implicit spoilers through the end of the series.

Six months have passed since Tanner's abrupt and public departure from the SMU, police work, work in general and, to be honest, any real life to speak of. Four months have passed since his son crossed the pond, but they speak every week on the telephone. Most weeks, anyway. He was steady for a while, holding on to what sight he had left, then one morning he opened his eyes to nothing. Blackness.

That was two months ago.

In the beginning, the newly promoted Detective Chief Inspector Jack Boyd called twice, leaving first a hesitant thanks for the recommendation, then a few weeks later the usual "If there's anything I can do." Tanner deleted Boyd's messages like he deleted all messages.

That first evening, Boyd doesn't call before he comes over. Rather, Tanner ignores the ringing phone then the soft whir of the answering machine (he's long since turned down the volume.) He ignores his mobile as it buzzes against his thigh, sets it on the coffee table and it buzzes over to the vodka. He can hear it when it hits the glass, shifting the cubes.

Who knows how long later, he's listening to classical music station - something quiet, somber, orchestral - when the trill of the intercom startles him. He ignores it until the bell ringer makes it clear he or she is not leaving, then he feels his way there and hits the button. "Yes."

"Detective Chief Inspector Boyd, sir."

Tanner closes his eyes. Makes no appreciable difference, of course, but it's instinct. After several seconds, he snaps, "And?"

"And I'd like to come upstairs and speak with you. Will you let me in, please, sir?"

He sounds tense. Ruffled, maybe, and Tanner likes that. He likes hearing something other than uncomfortable pity. He can picture Boyd down there, calm, not fidgeting. Maybe, to match his voice, he adjusts his glasses, but that's it. Does he bother looking in the camera, now that it makes no difference?

Tanner has no clear recollection of what the man's face looks like, just a blur of skin and hair (dark blonde, or was it ginger?) and the occasional flash of light hitting his glasses. Boyd's blur was usually a still one; Tanner did notice that. He noticed an economy of movement from Boyd, when the man wasn't doling out eager charm.

He buzzes Boyd in and props open his front door and a minute later, Boyd steps into Tanner's humble abode. He identifies the string music immediately, offers a few polite, kind words about it.

"Is that who it is?" Tanner is in the kitchen, cracking ice cubes into the bin. He leaves the door open as he finds the Vodka and tops off. He doesn't offer Boyd anything.

Boyd approaches, takes the empty ice cube tray, "May I?"

"By all means." There is the rush of the tray filling with water, the scrape back into the freezer, cubes rattle around the bin, then, Boyd's fingers cover Tanner's on the glass. Tanner hears the splash of ice cubes hitting his vodka, then he feels a puff of breath, or maybe he imagines it. Then Boyd lets go, and Tanner hears him get his own glass. "Thought you didn't drink," Tanner says.

"I don't drink with alcoholics."

"Hmm." Tanner feels along the counter, leans back against it. "So you've got a strangler."

Boyd drinks, rattles his ice around in his glass some. Then, "We have."

"Four victims?"

"Five. You'll read about it in the morning paper."

"No I won't. Must be pretty bad, if you're coming to me."

Another tip of the glass, then the empty clank of ice cubes. A sigh.

Tanner reaches out, beckons, has to do it again before he hears footsteps. He hits Boyd's shoulder first, his collar, then his cheek.

There is the sharp hiss of breath through Boyd's nostrils.

Tanner finds the glasses – still rimless – and traces the edge carefully. The side of his index finger brushes Boyd's eyebrow. He carefully slides the glasses from Boyd's face, folds them, then tucks them in his own breast pocket.

Boyd doesn't say a word.

Tanner knocks back the rest of his drink, finds Boyd's hand and presses the empty glass into his palm. "Get us another while you're at it." As he aims for the living room, he hears Boyd say, "Sure thing, Guv," under his breath.

*

Half an hour later, Boyd's done recounting the case and Ross Tanner is lolling on his couch, one hand out and idly scratching the dog's soft head. "There is something you're missing."

"Mm-hmm." Boyd is staring.

Ross has a feeling for these things these days. He could be wrong. It doesn't matter much. He doesn't think he is, though. He pulls the glasses from his pocket, and knows Boyd must be looking at him now. He hears Boyd approach, the rustle of cloth as he crouches, soft shoes on the floor.

Then Boyd's cool, smooth fingers, his warm palm wrapping around Ross's hand – the one that rests on his stomach. Ross pulls his other hand, the one holding the glasses, back, but Boyd doesn't reach for the glasses. He just stays there, covering Ross's hand with his own. Holding it. Ross expects Boyd to say something or do something, but all he does is squeeze gently.

Ross drops the glasses to his stomach, his Tuesday shirt. He doesn't remember which color today is. He doesn't care much about things like that anymore. It occurs to him that it's been months since he's been touched skin to skin by anyone but a doctor.

Then, Boyd's thumb moves. Slowly, it strokes half an inch this way, then half an inch back.

Ross puts his other hand over Boyd's.

The stroking stops. "They miss you."

"Why are you here?"

"Sir?"

"You don't need my help."

"So I'm here out of pity? Is that what you think?" He starts to pull his hand way.

Ross squeezes hard. "Why are you here?"

"I could use your help, sir."

"Stop calling me sir."

"No, sir, I don't think I will."

Ross releases Boyd's hand.

Boyd doesn't pull away. He stays there, hand heavy, the heat of his palm bleeding down through the thin cotton, soaking into Ross's belly. "I've left a box on the table to the left of the door. It's my notes, my thoughts. If you might listen, if you might have some insight, anything. Anything at all."

"Have you told them you've come to me? I don't want--"

He gives Tanner's chest a hesitant pat. "No. No one knows I'm here. Thank you for your time, sir." And with that, he takes his glasses and leaves.

*

Ross listens. He listens to all of the tapes, all the way through, several times. He spends days with Boyd's smooth voice in his ear. He discovers Boyd's voice is not always smooth. On these tapes, the tension, the emotion in his voice is buried, but it's there. And it tightens Ross's throat. Then, there is the flatness after the fifth girl.

A few notes later, there is the background noise of the car – Boyd takes notes while driving (Ross misses driving). Then there is a break and a jostle, like the tape's accidentally been turned on. Something hits something else, again and again, then half-a-beep of a car horn, and then Boyd's "Fuck. Fuck!" Deep breaths, a quaver on each exhale and another slam of his hands on the steering wheel. Another jostle, then a few seconds of nothingness.

In the next set of comments, the car is once again running in the background. Boyd's low, well modulated voice dispassionately recounts the gruesome details of the young woman's torture, death, and mutilation. This latest had the same telltale markers as the others, and it was yet another escalation. Much has – Lord knows how – been kept from the press.

During his visit, Boyd had summarized the pertinent details for Tanner, but that wasn't the same as hearing the progression – hearing Boyd wrestle with the facts of each case, synthesizing lines of inquiry, hearing Boyd's voice – the minute shifts in tone as he fails again and again and again to catch the killer and stop the girl's deaths.

Then Tanner hears the entry where sheets rustle in the background. Boyd's voice is low pitched and croaked from sleep. Not quiet, though. Not like he's got someone in his bed he's afraid of waking.

Tanner goes to the park, feels sun on his face, heat and imagined the light – remembered light on his eyelids. He listens to Boyd's voice and his words and he thinks. He tries to figure out what it is Boyd has missed.

*

It's some part of the night when he calls Boyd, he doesn't check the time, but Boyd's voice has that sleep-roughness. Sheets shift in the background. "Yes? Yes, what is it?"

Tanner takes a drink, doesn't remove his mouth from the mouthpiece as he does. His glass hits the phone, and his half melted ice cubes hit his lips.

Boyd sighs. He sounds exhausted. "I wasn't sure you'd call."

"Hell of a case, you've got there."

"Yes," Boyd says.

"I've got theories."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know."

"It's all right. I'm awake. It's--"

"This might take a while. You might want to get yourself a drink."

Boyd yawns, then groans. "Mm," he says.

Tanner starts talking, sharing the connections he's found. A minute later, he hears Boyd sipping something. Tanner brings his own drink to his lips, wets his mouth, then continues.

*

The next afternoon, another box of tapes arrives. Ross gets his own tape recorder, makes his own notes as he listens. There's a different tone to the questions Boyd asks in this batch. Ross doesn't think he imagines it. Boyd knew that with these tapes Ross would be listening.

In these tapes, Boyd's voice has lost much of the tension it held on the last of the others. Boyd is speaking as much to Ross as he is to himself now. The description of certain evidence becomes more visual, the detail more sensual. Not sensual, sensory. Tanner wears the headphones to bed, and listens. The tape recorder is on repeat, first one side than the other, back and forth. Tanner falls asleep with Boyd's smooth voice in his ear and he wakes to the same. He wakes with the warmth of the sunlight on his bare feet, the dog curled against his side, still twitching its way through its dog dream.

The next batch he receives, Boyd never actually says his name, but it's often clear that he addresses Tanner directly, even as he speaks, ostensibly, to himself. Tanner wonders why Boyd isn't bouncing these ideas off his own team. Maybe he is.

There is a sixth murder. The media continues to breathe down Boyd's neck.

A few days later, Tanner has a brainstorm. He calls, waking Boyd and he doesn't even hit the intercom when Boyd rings from downstairs, just buzzes him in, leaves the door unlocked. Tanner hears the dog's collar jangle as it perks up, and then he hears Boyd shut the door. Boyd is walking very quietly this evening.

"What have you got?" Boyd asks.

"Tell me again about the brother," Tanner says. "The brother of the third one."

"He's got an airtight alibi," Boyd says.

"Tell me anyway."

Boyd starts listing off facts. He lists off observations. He opens Tanner's freezer, pours two drinks and keeps talking. Tanner hears the click of one drink on the coffee table, then Boyd is taking his hand and pressing the cold tumbler into his palm.

Tanner is on the couch. He waited there as Boyd rode up in the elevator. Boyd sits on the opposite side of the couch. Tanner hears a soft clunk, like shoes being kicked off, dropped to the floor. He hears the shifting of a body against cushions. He feels it. He hears a sigh, hears a couple gulps, then Boyd continues, voice more open now. Tanner imagines that Boyd's head rests against the back of the couch. He imagines it but he's got no way of actually knowing (he does have a way, reaching out, but he's not doing that). Tanner imagines that Boyd closes his eyes.

Tanner does the same and listens to the rhythmic flow of words, the rhythmic flow of observations, the gruesome details. He listens to the theories, to the what ifs, hears more shifting. Tanner wonders what Boyd is wearing. He certainly wouldn't get dressed properly to visit a washed up (not to mention blind) former collegue in the dead of the night.

Finally, Boyd says, "So what have you got? Talk to me."

"The brother's the key, I can feel it."

"How do you know?"

"I can feel it. I can just feel it."

"Make me feel it," Boyd says and then there is a long, long pause. Boyd sets his glass on the table. After a while, he says. "They hate me."

Tanner laughs. "Of course they hate you. You're not me and you're not them."

"They weren't all up for the job."

"Some thought they might have a shot, thought maybe they'd earned it. As for you…"

"At least they don't think I slept my way to the top." Boyd's voice is artificially light. "Not most of them anyway."

Ross smirks. "Not exactly my type, are you?"

"Nor you mine," Boyd says slowly. He sounds relaxed, like his mind is drifting somewhere else.

Ross reaches for Boyd, makes contact on the first try, finds the ear piece of his glasses and removes them. He sits back against his arm of the couch, then traces his finger along the thin edge of the lens. "What's your prescription?"

"20/100."

"Why glasses? Why not contacts?"

"They make me look older."

"You're not that young."

"Some people think so."

"Four years younger than me. Not that young." Ross folds and unfolds the delicate-feeling wire earpieces, then refolds them and slips them in his pocket. He feels the most delicate disturbance of the air in front of his face and recognizes the sensation. Through luck and a little instinct, he manages to catch Boyd's waving hand his first try. "Nothing," Ross says. "I see nothing now, no light, no shapes, nothing." He tries to keep his voice even, but the pain in it is shamefully evident. He's glad he can't see Boyd's pity.

Boyd doesn't say anything and he doesn't pull his hand away.

Tanner squeezes Boyd's hand, feels Boyd squeeze back and the impulse hits, fast and strong. Tanner doesn't bother to fight it. He reaches, touches Boyd's ear, then wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls.

Boyd spills towards him, one hand clutching Tanner's thigh, one landing on his shoulder. The side of his face presses to Tanner's, then his hand, then he seizes Tanner's neck and makes a startled gasp.

Tanner grabs Boyd's face with both hands, presses his lips to Boyd's prickly cheek, the moist corner of his mouth. Boyd attacks the kiss then; he opens his mouth and kisses hungrily; he kisses too hungrily for this to be an impulse. Tanner finally finds the hem of Boyd's shirt, some soft knit, untucked. It feels like Boyd is wearing jeans, and Tanner wraps a hand around Boyd's leg, strokes the denim, rubs the inseam. Then up, popping a button, fingers finding smooth, snug briefs.

Tanner shoves Boyd down to the couch; he does it roughly. He yanks Boyd's jeans down past his hips, does that roughly too. Tanner feels for Boyd's cock, finds it thick and hard and pointing toward his hipbone, trapped by the briefs. Tanner tugs the waistband of the briefs down, and presses his palm to the warm, smooth shaft. One by one, his fingers wrap around it, giving him the size and shape and curve of it. Tanner rubs his thumb over the foreskin, pulls it down and finds the head slick with pre-come. "How long have you been sitting there, hard?"

"Christ," is all Boyd says, covering Tanner's hand with his own.

Tanner swats it away and with his other hand, the one pinning Boyd to the couch, he steadies himself. Knee wedged between Boyd's hip and the back of the couch, he leans forward and kisses Boyd's chin, his throat, his mouth.

Boyd sucks on Tanner's tongue as he thrusts up his hips and his hands fumble with the front of Tanner's trousers.

Tanner shoves them away once, twice, then he grabs Boyd's hands with both of his own and holds them down at his sides, falls forward against him, chest against chest, temple to temple, Boyd's hot, vodka scented breath panting up at him.

Boyd's mouth finds Tanner's ear, whispers, "Okay, okay."

Tanner doesn't like the softness in his voice and brings his mouth down, bumping his lip painfully hard against Boyd's teeth. When he finds Boyd's cock again, when he grips it firmly and strokes, Boyd gasps and grabs Tanner's hair with both hands, kisses up into Tanner's mouth, tongue strong and wet and hot and dirty.

Ross kisses back, feels Boyd's thigh rubbing hard up between his, feels Boyd scratching the back of his neck over and over again and Ross doesn't need to see this, he can feel it beneath him and in his hand. He can hear it. He can smell it. Every time Boyd moans, it's on Tanner's fucking tongue and he keeps going, doing, feeling.

Suddenly, Boyd's tearing his mouth away. "Fuck. Oh, fuck." Then, Ross's fingers get slick and wet with come. He keeps pumping his slippery fist down and down and down, until beneath him, Boyd shudders violently and when he finally stops, he reaches for Tanner, grabs his shirt and pulls.

Tanner sits back and pushes him away again, harder, fingers slippery against Boyd's when their hands meet. Then Boyd twists beneath him, there is the scrape of the table across the floor, then Tanner is pushed, falling. The floor slams up to meet him and Boyd falls atop him. Boyd's hands are on Ross's fly, and his nimble fingers have Ross's cock out in seconds.

Ross takes a swing at Boyd and hits nothing but air.

Boyd grabs his arms, and as he tries to hold Ross down, smooth, bare hip, then wiry pubic hair drags across Ross's erection. Ross hisses, squeezes his eyes shut. He feels Boyd's lips, soft and square against his own. He feels Boyd's fingers in his hair, tightening, holding his head down on the floor as he kisses – not quite gently, but slowly. Deliberately.

Tanner remains silent, but his struggles wane. He finds Boyd's chest, works a hand beneath his shirt, rubs at the warm, taut skin he finds there. As soon as Boyd's grip relaxes, Tanner grabs his waist and squeezes hard, throwing Boyd off and scrambling away.

Only, Boyd's got his leg, then his shirt, then he's on Tanner. Not fucking around this time. A few feet away, the dog barks, barks again as Boyd pins him down. "I fucking want to touch you," Boyd says. "Let me." He shoves the Tanner's shoulders for emphasis, then he's grabbed Tanner's cock and Tanner doesn't see it coming, then Boyd's mouth is on him, around him, wet, sucking heat and he's not fucking around with this either.

The slick, wet sucking noises, Boyd's choked grunt as he works the back of his throat, fucking open and tight and deep and fuck. Fuck. He hits the wooden floor with his fist and dimly hears a high-pitched whine, then a tentative lick at his ear.

Christ. "Hold on," he says. "Hold on a second." He plants a hand on Boyd's forehead and pushes.

"What – oh God."

"We're scaring the dog."

Boyd coughs. "I see that." He gets off Tanner, then something with a belt buckle hits the floor. Tanner is barefoot, so it's easy for Boyd to get his trousers off, then he's got Tanner's hands and he's pulling him to his feet.

Tanner whistles and hears an answering woof. He turns toward it and delivers a stern, "Stay." He feels Boyd's hands at his shoulders, pulling his shirt down and off, then Tanner's undershirt goes, then more of Boyd's clothes hit the floor (whispering impact barely audible).

Then, Boyd's breath does this funny, tight thing. He takes one of Tanner's hands and pulls it to his own chest, then the other.

Tanner runs his palms down Boyd's flat belly, feels something warm and hard bump his wrist. "I thought you wanted to touch me," Tanner said.

"Where's your bed?"

"Left-hand hallway, second door." Tanner finds Boyd's dick (already halfway hard again) and starts stroking. Boyd grabs his wrist and all but drags him down the hall. He closes the door behind them and locks it. Ross chuckles as he finds the bed and sits on the edge. "He's not that smart. Yet."

Boyd doesn't answer. A few footsteps later, and his thigh hits Tanner's outstretched fingers. Boyd gets his shoulders and pushes him to his back, spreads his knees, then comes the quiet thump of Boyd's knees hitting the floor. Then more soft, wet sounds to go with Boyd's, deep, wet mouth.

Tanner traces Boyd's eyebrow, his cheek as it hollows and bulges, his lips as they stretch and slide. He cups the back of Boyd's head and thrusts up, gagging him, pulling him down, grinding against the back of his throat.

When he lets go, Boyd stays deep another few seconds, goes deeper, then pulls back, gasping for air. "Get on the bed, sir."

"Sir?" Ross doesn't move. He strokes his cock instead.

"Get on the bed,*Ross*." The bed sinks beneath one of Ross's hips, then Boyd's hand under his side, heaving him further up onto the bed. Warm hairy thighs on either side of Ross's hips.

He pats his way up, finds a pair of balls and cups them, gives a tug. "What if I wanted to fuck you?"

"Do you?"

"No, but what if I did?"

Boyd says nothing as he takes hold of Tanner's cock, traces the head (like a fingertip) along his hard shaft, under his soft balls, then Tanner's sliding up along the crack of Boyd's ass – the curve of his erection pressing along and between the curve of Boyd's cheeks.

"Suck me," Tanner says. When Boyd leans down and kisses Tanner on the mouth, Tanner nips at his lip. Boyd groans and rubs his cock and balls against Tanner's lower belly, deepening the kiss and hissing when Tanner gets a hand between them and around Boyd's cock.

Tanner squeezes. "Suck my cock."

"Okay." Boyd slides down, planting a wet kiss on Tanner's left nipple.

Tanner runs a knee up between Boyd's legs until it presses against his balls, firmly, insistently. "My *cock*."

Somewhere in the darkness above him, Boyd chuckles. He settles alongside Tanner, chin rough with stubble on Tanner's hip, then his tongue slides wet under Tanner's balls, then lips and sucking there, firm, good, long strokes with his hand, down and down and spit and again, slicker fingers twisting, then more kissing, tonguing, then on his goddamned arsehole and Tanner clenches and spreads his legs at the same time.

Boyd lifts his head. His breath puffs against Tanner's wet balls, then his shaft, and Boyd's pulling it back, thumb under the head, breath hot and hovering. Lips brush skin as Boyd asks, "What if I wanted to fuck you?"

Tanner grabs his cock and pushes it up against Boyd's soft lips. "Please." With his other hand, he pulls open Boyd's mouth, rubs the velvety slickness of Boyd's tongue with his thumb. Boyd sucks and Tanner says, softly, "How long were you sitting there hard?" He runs the pad of his thumb over each little ridge and valley of Boyd's back teeth. Boyd's lips tighten around the base of his thumb and he pulls it out, smears it over Boyd's cheek. "What are you looking at right now? What do you see?"

"The blue veins on the inside of your elbow. Your shoulder, the scar there. Your mouth. Your eyes. You have green eyes." After a pause of several seconds, "Your prick." Then, Boyd takes mercy. There is the wet smack of parting lips, then Boyd takes him in and starts sucking.

Tanner drops his arms to his sides and closes his eyes and Boyd's nimble fucking hands, his throat and tongue and lips and spit and straightforward rhythm mean that soon, very soon, Tanner is seeing stars and releasing a wordless, open mouthed shout as he shoots and shoots and fucking gives all his come to Boyd who just keeps sucking. A wet slurp, absolutely pornographic, then the pressure of his throat as he swallows. Tanner feels limp and warm and good and drained as he softens on Boyd's tongue, in his mouth. Tanner breathes deeply, through the last of the tremors.

Boyd's face presses to the top of Tanner's thigh, then, at the very edge of his hearing, comes Boyd's whispered, "Thank God."

Tanner says nothing, grabs hold of Boyd's ear and tugs, hears a much more audible, "Ow!" and pushes Boyd to his back beside him. Boyd's still hard, Tanner discovers. He slides a leg over Boyd's as he strokes. "You surprise me."

"Do I?"

"Yeah." Tanner brings his face down, feels Boyd's with his cheek, his mouth. He strokes slowly, learning Boyd's prick with his fingers. He wonders if it's pale. He thinks Boyd was pale, he's pretty sure. He wonders if it's a darker pink, maybe, or reddish purple at the tip. He knows it's hot and hard and as he fondles it, he knows what Boyd's shampoo smells like, and that he's not wearing aftershave.

Boyd's breath catches and releases, catches again, then he asks, "Why me? Why did you choose me for the SMU?"

Tanner slows his strokes. "You wanted it. And you let me know you wanted it."

"Yes."

Tanner twists his fist around the head and works down again. "Did you want me to fuck you then? Tell me the truth."

"I don't—" Boyd's voice catches and he coughs.

Tanner kisses his mouth, tongues the roof of it, tastes his come and keeps jacking and kissing until both their chins are wet with spit. "You don't what?"

"I don't fuck alcoholics. Or straight men."

"And why not?"

"You drive me insane."

"What are you looking at right now?"

"Your face. Your hand on me. Your ceiling."

"Look at me." And Tanner believes that Boyd does. Then Boyd's hands are on Tanner's head, pulling him down, lips meeting his halfway. Tanner always kissed with his eyes closed anyway. Boyd clutches his shoulders, twists his head away and Tanner says into his neck, "Come on."

"Yes," Boyd says, voice cracking, then he's making Tanner's fingers wet and the scent of come is thick in the air. Tanner starts to take his hand away, but Boyd clutches it, holds it there, strokes it half a dozen more times. His movements are jerky, his hand trembling. Finally, his hand stills around Tanner's and he sighs. He keeps his hand there, as does Tanner and slowly, his cock grows soft, shrinks against Tanner's palm.

His fingers slide between Tanner's curling around, clutching Tanner's palm. "Well," he says.

"Well," Tanner says. He slides his hand from Boyd's, wipes it on the sheets and lies down on his back, shoulder against Boyd's.

Boyd says, "Do you mind if I turn off the lights?"

"On your way out?"

Boyd shifts. Then, after a considerable pause, says, "If you like."

Tanner reaches for him and Boyd catches his hand, presses it to his cheek. Tanner traces up the bridge of his nose, feels the crease between his brows. "You're frowning."

"Yes."

"Do you want to stay?"

"Yes."

"Then stay."

*

Ross wakes to the sound and motion of Boyd getting out of bed. He stays still and hears the bedroom door open, a plaintive whine, the nervous tap dancing of the dog's nails on wood.

"Shh. Yes," Boyd says. "One minute." Footsteps, a few creaky floorboards, then the splash of a long piss hitting the toilet, and a satisfied sigh that makes Tanner's bladder ache in sympathy. The shuffle of Boyd gathering his clothes, dressing, then he's running the water in the kitchen. The jangle of keys, "Where is your—" Boyd chuckles. "Aren't you clever?" Then the front door, shut very quietly.

Ross rolls over, kicks off the covers. Sunlight all the way up his legs, the curtains are open. He doesn't need to tap the bedside clock to know it's around half-six.

He desperately needs to piss, so he does, then gets back into bed. He hears the coffee maker burble to life about the time the aroma first tickles his nostrils. The scent grows stronger and stronger until he turns over and buries his face in a pillow, gets a nose full of Boyd's personal scent.

He likes the way Boyd smells. He really likes the way Boyd kisses – very thorough. Boyd doesn't dominate the kiss, but Ross has to work to keep up and he likes that. He likes to run his tongue along Boyd's teeth, feel the texture. Boyd has smooth lips, just a little chapped at the corners. Tanner felt that with his lips and tongue when they first started, but all that sloppy, warm, fierce kissing quickly moistened both their mouths.

This is the first time since Catherine his bedclothes smell like a stranger – and he doesn't remember them ever smelling like a strange man. This was first time he's done this as a blind man and he's pleased that that part of it never once made him feel awkward. Still, he wonders what the hell it is Boyd thinks he's doing.

A while later, the front door, then the dog let off its leash, trotting around. Footsteps approaching, not particularly lightly, then the door creaks open. Ross smells coffee. Good, strong coffee and he sits up, finds the floor with his feet. He finds his cigarettes and lights one, drops the lighter and pack on the bedside cabinet.

"Good morning," Boyd says.

"Good morning."

"How do you take it?"

"Black and sweet."

"Right." A hot mug is pressed into Tanner's palm and he takes the cigarette from his mouth, takes a sip. "He give you any trouble?"

"No. He was a good boy." Boyd sits beside Tanner on the bed and drinks his coffee.

After a couple gulps, Tanner asks, "Why do you think I picked you?"

"I think that—"

"Not now. At the time. What did you think my reasons were, or did you care?"

Boyd doesn't answer right away. He leans away from Tanner, then he's… Tanner doesn't know what he's doing, he can't *see* and it pisses him off. He takes a drag, leaves the cigarette in his mouth and reaches out, feels Boyd's chest – horizontal now, he's lain back on the bed. Boyd asks, "May I?"

"May you what?"

Boyd pulls the cigarette from Tanner's mouth, takes a drag, lets it out slowly, then he's stretching (Tanner feels his expensive feeling shirt drawn tight) and twisting and sounds like he's stubbing out the last of the cigarette. "I thought maybe you were punishing me for threatening to out you."

"You threatened to out me for the wrong thing."

"No one likes being outed. No one likes being threatened." He touches Tanner's face.

Tanner flinches. "You need to get to work, don't you?"

Boyd stops touching his face.

"You've got a killer to catch. Thanks for the coffee."

"Yes," Boyd says. "That's right. You're welcome. For the coffee."

*

Two days later, another batch of tapes arrives. Ross listens to them one after another and it still takes him most of the day. He wonders, flipping through the timestamps in his memory whether Boyd has slept.

Even though it's all going to shit for DCI Jack Boyd, his voice is tight, controlled, professional. Ross listens to the newscast, hears the sister of one of the victims start screaming at Boyd at a press conference. Ross listens to interviews with suspects – a new addition in this batch, and on the next tape, he hears familiar voices. Boyd's taped a group meeting with the SMU where everyone throws out their ideas. Boyd exerts more control than Tanner expected, more than Tanner ever did, actually. Boyd's management style is more authoritarian. It suits him, though.

Still, everyone's tired and getting nowhere and failing – repeatedly and publicly – to catch a man killing young women. A man taunting them by leaving DNA evidence on the corpses: ejaculate in their mouths.

Ross frowns and rubs his face and wills away the imagined visual of his own come in Boyd's mouth. The juxtaposition turns his stomach and he lights a cigarette to settle it, to clear the imagined taste from his mouth. He stares in the direction of the ceiling. The bastard, whoever was leaving it in his victims must be sure he isn't in the system. Sure he wouldn't be tested during the inquiries.

Or, of course, sure of something else entirely. Challenge the basic assumptions, Ross.

The most basic – that the killer is leaving his own semen. Maybe. Interesting. But can we get more basic? What about the assumption that the killer is male?

Ross sits up. Ross connects a couple of glaring dots that make sense now. Jesus. He's probably grasping at straws, but what if he's not? He calls Boyd, catches him him in his car.

"DCI Boyd."

"I want you to test the DNA evidence and see if it's ever been frozen."

Boyd doesn't answer for several seconds. Then he says. "Anne worked at a fertility clinic."

"Yes."

"You're fucking brilliant."

"Not yet, I'm not. Call the lab."

"Ross, I—"

Ross hangs up and sits back on the couch, feels the dog rest its head on his knee. He scratches and feels so frustrated, craves action, answers. He wants to call the lab, he wants them to call *him* as soon as they get the results. But they're not going to, are they? Ever. He feels for the table, the vodka bottle, tips it up and finds it's empty. He hurls it into the void, shattering it somewhere near the front door.

The dog whimpers, crawls up onto the couch, burying his nose in Tanner's armpit. Tanner feels like a prick, his housekeeper's not due until Thursday and he'll have to shut the dog in the bedroom while he feels around on the floor. When he's done cleaning the best he can, he goes and takes a shower because he hasn't in days. He waits for Boyd to call and tell him he's wrong.

Only, he's not.

As he finds out later, Boyd doesn't bother checking whether the samples were frozen, just compares them to the DNA on file at the fertility clinic – not included in the police database because they don't take criminals there, do they? And the donor who gave the sample during Anne's employment, died four months ago under mysterious circumstances.

But that evening, Tanner doesn't know that. He just learns, on the eleven o clock news that the strangler has been caught, that he was a she, and that the head of the SMU was stabbed during the apprehension. For an endless breath, Tanner's gut feels shot, then the newscaster continues, "He was treated and released from a local hospital." There is the insectile sound of a hundred flashbulbs at once, shouted questions that go unanswered as they blend together. Then, a heartwarming story of a three legged dog who still herds sheep. The dog on the TV barks.

Tanner's dog barks back and Tanner pulls the stupid thing close and pets it, holds it, feels it crawl onto his chest – stepping on his fucking balls in the process – then settling heavily with a warm snuffle against his neck.

Tanner wakes to the buzzer and the dog's paws jamming into his stomach as it leaps from the couch. Tanner growls into the intercom when he finds it, "Who is it?"

"DCI Boyd, sir. I didn't wake-"

Tanner lets go of the intercom and buzzes him in. Tanner waits in the doorway, hears Boyd's steps once he gets off the elevator, hears them slow as they approach. "I heard you got stabbed," Tanner says.

"Barely. Only took four stitches."

"They'll give you a medal anyway." Ross catches Boyd's shoulder, then his neck. He doesn't have to feel for it, Boyd's pulse is pounding. His skin a little tacky with sweat. "Did you run here?"

"I just got stabbed in the leg, so no. May I come in?"

"You're still wound up, aren't you?"

"Yes I am."

"I know how you feel," Ross says.

"I feel high."

"Painkillers will do that."

"I haven't taken any painkillers."

"Are you a masochist?"

Boyd says, "May I come in?"

Tanner steps aside, lets him in. "Congratulations."

"It was your – it should have been your case."

"Yes, well." Ross shrugs.

A long pause, then, "I shouldn't have come here."

"Why did you?"

"I'm a masochist."

"Ha. Ha."

Boyd chuckles softly then takes a deep breath. "I needed to share this with someone."

"You've got a whole team."

"Someone who understood." Boyd's voice is scratchy. It has been since he showed up.

Ross wonders how much yelling he's done tonight. "Come over here," he says.

Boyd's got a slight limp and when gets close, he smells like sweat and blood and a trace of antiseptic. He brushes his hand against Tanner's but doesn't take it.

Tanner touches Boyd's front, finds the collar of his shirt undone, counts his way down – four buttons undone, and Tanner undoes the rest. He feels his way down the sides of Boyd's trousers, hears Boyd's soft "Your left," and on the outside of Boyd's right thigh, just above the knee he finds the swell of the bandage. He finds the slit in the fabric and the edges are stiff with what he presumes is dried blood. He slides a couple fingers in and feels the gauze.

Tanner kisses Boyd and he tastes like tea, like he was just drinking it a minute ago. He moans and puts his hands on Tanner's face as he sways against him, and Tanner grabs his hips with both hands. When Tanner comes up for air, he says, "You want to lie down?"

"Hell yes."

"Then why don't you lie down," Tanner says softly.

"Would you get me some water?"

"Mm-hmm." Tanner turns off the television, locks the door and gets the water. By the time he gets to his bedroom, a few minutes later, Boyd is snoring.

Boyd sleeps through the shoe and trouser removal, but hisses, jolted awake when Ross tries lifting his legs onto the bed. As Boyd crawls on, Ross strips to his underwear beside the bed, and it doesn't occur to him that Boyd is watching until he says, "You are very attractive, you know that?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." When Boyd's fingers skim Tanner's thigh, Tanner gets goosebumps. "Tell me something," he says. "Who have you told about coming to me? About the case?"

"No one. You told me not to."

"Good."

"You deserve credit."

"I don't want credit."

Boyd takes Tanner's hand. "What do you want?"

Not unkindly, Tanner says, "I want you to shut up and go to sleep."

Boyd laughs. He takes Tanner's hand and presses the folded glasses into it.

*

In the morning, Ross wakes to the front door shutting, dog's nails tapping eagerly on the floor, Boyd's whispered, "Good dog," and the crunching of a biscuit. The rich scent of coffee fills the air and then the clank of a mug from the cupboard, then a tinking spoon. Boyd's footsteps approach, then he and the coffee are in the room.

Tanner reaches and gets Boyd's hand instead of the coffee. Boyd lets go, sets down the coffee, then he strokes Tanner's head. He runs his fingers through Tanner's hair.

"What is it?" Tanner asks.

"I think it would be good – that is, I would like to continue."

"Continue what?"

"This."

"And what is this?"

"That's a good question, sir."

Tanner reaches out. Boyd's overcoat is wet. "It's raining."

"Yes. I – the thing is, I'd like to bring you on officially. As a paid consultant. The SMU could use you." He sounds anxious. He sounds rehearsed. "I could use you, sir."

"That won't work."

"I think you're wrong."

"That won't work for *me*."

Boyd sighs, sounds frustrated. "I think you're wrong."

Ross shakes his head.

Boyd grabs Tanner's face and stops him and although Tanner expects a kiss, none comes. "Listen to me, Tanner," he says. "It is a sin – a *sin* to waste your talents." When Tanner doesn't respond, he says more fiercely, "Come back."

"I can't. I can't do that."

"I've spoken with—"

God damn it. "Our deal was you keep your mouth shut." Ross wrenches his face away. He knew – he knew something like this would happen if... Rage and frustration crest inside him and he swings for Boyd's midsection, connects, and hears Boyd hit something, fall over. "Get out."

After a minute, Boyd gets up, but he doesn't leave.

"Get out!" Ross bellows and there is silence for several seconds, then an explosion of pain on his mouth – a blow that throws him back to the mattress. After a few thoroughly stunned seconds, he says, "You *hit* me."

"You hit me first." The bed sinks beneath Tanner, then there is gentle pressure on his lip. "Christ, you're bleeding."

"Because you hit me!"

"You weren't listening. I didn't tell them about us. About this. About any of it. No one knows I've come to you, only that I think you're still useful." Some cloth blots against Tanner's lip, which stings like a bastard. "More than useful. Vital."

"You hit me."

"How long are you going to whine about it?"

"I am *not* whining. And it would never work. I'm a joke. Worse than that, I'm a fraud. A liar."

"Is that what you think?"

"It's what they think."

"No. It's not. Not most of them anyway. You were a legend before this. Now, you're like some sort of god."

Tanner tastes blood, gently pushes Boyd's hovering fingers away. "Why are you doing this?"

Boyd goes silent, then lays his hand over Tanner's heart. He says quietly, guiltily, "I worshipped you."

"You what?"

"First time I heard of you, I was still in the academy. That bust you made, with the heroin in the shoes."

Ross laughs. "Dumb fucking luck, that one."

"But you turned it into a bust. You took the break and you ran with it brilliantly and I thought to myself, that right there, that's the sort of cop I want to be."

"And look at you now. You are me."

"I worshipped you, Tanner. I followed your career. And then finally—"

"You met the reality."

Boyd strokes Tanner's brow. "When I thought you were like my father, I thought, well that fits, doesn't it? That explains it."

"You worshipped your father?"

"What boy doesn't?"

"And I let you down."

"I was so insulted that you wouldn't look me in the eye. I thought you didn't like me. And I don't – I'm not the sort of man who cares whether he's liked."

"Yes. I've heard your briefings."

"But I wanted you to like me. I wanted you to see me."

"I liked you," Tanner says.

"Yeah?" Boyd says.

Tanner doesn't need to see the tentative smile to know it's there. "I did. Until you threatened me, anyway. There was a lot on my mind, but yeah, I liked you well enough."

Boyd turns Ross's hand over, spreads the fingers open, lines his fingertips up with Ross's. "Before I figured it out –wrongly, the first time – you were always touching everything, fondling and stroking and have you any idea how distracting that was?"

Ross smiles. He can't help himself. "You had a crush on me."

"I worshipped you," Boyd says plainly.

Something terrifying shivers its way up through Tanner. "And what about now?"

"Now I want your help."

"You don't need it."

"No," Boyd says sharply. "I don't. But I want it. I could use it. I could use you. And I—" He stops.

"You had a crush on me." Ross smirks.

"You have a problem with that?" Boyd's voice is bristly, wounded, embarrassed.

"I don't." Ross waits and is so fucking frustrated not knowing what expression Boyd's got on his face. He feels for it, but Boyd shifts out of reach. Ross grabs Boyd's overcoat and yanks him down to the bed, gets atop him, and straddles him, sitting on his hips. He finds Boyd's rain wet-hair, his face, and it's slack, expressionless now.

Then, under Ross's fingers, Boyd's eyebrows draw together and down. He all but whispers, "So there. Now you know."

"No, I like it."

"Now you're just—"

"Hey!" Ross covers his mouth for a moment, then lets go and gets down to his elbows, thigh nestled between Boyd's, body pressing down against the length of him. He gets his face so close Boyd's breath warms his mouth. "Hey, I can do this, all right? I can't do that, but I can do this."

Boyd holds his breath for a long time, then finally lets it out. "All right," he says, voice once again that smooth, even tone Ross has come to enjoy.

Ross grins. "That's it? Just like that?"

"What would you like in exchange?" Boyd's words are measured, wary.

"Exchange? We're making things even now, are we?" He finds the waistband of Boyd's trousers and undoes them. "That's fair."

"Sir?"

"Don't call me sir. How's your leg?" Tanner asks as he reaches down Boyd's boxers, take hold of his soft cock and lowers his head.

"It's fine. It hurts. It – oh God." Boyd shuts up when Ross sucks on him.

While Ross is by no means an expert, this is another on that treasured list of things he can do equally well sighted and not, and as Boyd grows hard, Ross's mouth waters. He hasn't done this since the eighties, but it's a different experience now, all smell and taste and heat and texture. It's a different experience now, feeling hands on his face while he does this. It's different, hearing these moans.

It's good.

*

It takes two more cases for Tanner to agree to come in. He's instrumental to the solving of one and he *is* the one who solves the other – albeit at the same exact time Boyd does, but he is the one who picks up the phone to say, "Draper," only to hear Boyd blurt out the very same name.

It takes another case after that to get the powers that be to let bygones be bygones.

They fucking *clap* for him the day he comes back, which puts him in a pissy mood – but no one seems to care about that. They discover that (particularly during interrogations) criminals and guilty folks find Tanner's blind stare incredibly unnerving, Boyd's dispassionate recounting of the suspect's body language equally so.

And if, in the course of an investigation Detective Chief Inspector Jack Boyd takes Ross Tanner's hand to show him something, or if he guides Tanner with a hand on his lower back, no one around them – no one who knows them, anyway – thinks twice.

In public, when Tanner speaks to Boyd, he always says sir. Tanner could, if he wanted, undermine Boyd's authority. He was a little concerned about it, actually, but somehow it works out fine. On the job, he always, always defers with a smile. When he gets particularly obsequious (only ever in private moments like the car or a closed office) it drives Boyd up a wall and his voice gets calmer and calmer.

Later on those days, in Ross's bed, Jack will get rough with him, which Ross enjoys immensely.

And when, ten months after Ross's return to the SMU, he finds himself under Jack, in him, straining to hold on just a little longer and the word "love" escapes his lips, Jack doesn't miss a beat. He just leans down and – lips to lips – says, "Yes."

###

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Astrothsknot for the britpicking.


End file.
